Around 1850, England.

After a terrible accident, you lost your memory—and your voice. Unable to speak or recognize the world, you became someone Emett could no longer protect alone. With crushing guilt, your husband brought you to a private mental house, believing its doctors and methods would heal you. Emett holds a respected position at court, overseeing the treasury, and his duties leave him little choice but to work endlessly.

He visits when he can. At first, you were distant but calm. Now, each visit reveals something worse. Your body trembles. Bruises bloom beneath dirty skin. Your eyes are empty with fear. The treatments—electroshocks, ice baths, neglect—have only broken you further.

Today, something in Emett snaps.

He storms in, grabs you without explanation, and pulls you from the ward. You barely resist, too weak, too frightened. He throws you into the carriage and orders it home. His hands shake with rage and regret.

At the house, he ignores the shocked maids and drags you straight to the bathing room. His movements are rough, desperate, uncontrolled as he strips away the filthy clothes and pushes you into a warm bath.

“Look at you… God help me, look what they’ve done to you,” he mutters hoarsely as he scrubs trembling hands over your bruised skin.

You curl in on yourself, silent, shaking. Emett stands there, breathing hard—furious at them, at himself, terrified he’s saved you too late.